"What brings Meng Kuan to Zhongdu Bridge?" "Who knows? Word is, he's running from a debt." "A debt? I heard it…
"What brings Meng Kuan to Zhongdu Bridge?"
"Who knows? Word is, he's running from a debt."
"A debt? I heard it was a favor he owed."
Money? Favors? Utter nonsense.
Meng Kuan dug at his ear, tuning out the wagging tongues as he unscrewed his canteen.
He'd swiped the flask from Fu Qianli. A Mount Taibai specialty, built to hold nothing but the most soul-scorching brew.
He threw his head back and downed a massive swig.
...
"Tsk. Northern brew. Just the scent has a kick to it."
"A connoisseur, I see! From the south, judging by that tongue of yours?"
A snowy night, a ruined temple. The two had been silent, focused on their blades until the aroma of the wine finally broke the ice.
Meng Kuan was here to deliver a letter. Over the years, he had repeatedly enlisted under false names, all to track down the kin of his old comrades and deliver their letters and back pay.
This last letter was for someone near the Wolf River, in Khitan territory.
He had set out with no expectation of returning, yet in this snow-swept wilderness, he encountered a fellow bladesman.
First, they fought over their blades, then over their horses, carving a path of blood and flight.
By the time they finally shook their pursuers and settled in this ruined temple, neither yet knew the other's name.
But by the laws of the jianghu, those who have shed blood and shared wine together are brothers.
The man gave a hearty laugh and introduced himself as Wang Qing. With that, he tossed over his half-emptied wineskin.
The aroma had long been parching Meng Kuan's throat. He downed three massive gulps like a thirsty ox. It left Wang Qing visibly pained.
Not for the man, but for the wine.
"One who drinks another's wine must mind his manners." Seeing this, Meng Kuan wiped his mouth.
"I am Meng Kuan, from... Hutuo. I've tasted brews from all over, but this... it smells potent, hits sharp, and finishes clean. I can't place it."
"Haha! This was brewed from the snows of Mount Taibai's highest peak. You'll find nothing like it elsewhere! But when I left home, I snuck out this many."
Wang Qing gestured with his fingers.
Meng Kuan scoffed, "Three jars? That wouldn't last the night."
Wang Qing shook his head, maintaining the gesture.
Meng Kuan: "Thirty?"
Wang Qing grinned. "Three hundred jars!"
Meng Kuan roared with laughter, clapping his hands. "Brother, you are a rare soul indeed!"
And so, in that ruined temple, over half a skin of fine wine, they talked the night away, wandering the world in their words.
At first light, the wine was spent and the fire dead. They mounted their horses at the door, one bound south, the other north.
"I, Wang Qing, take my leave. Farewell!"
"I, Meng Kuan, take my leave. Farewell."
Farewells said, Meng Kuan spurred his horse to leave, only to hear a shout from behind:
"Meng Kuan, next time we meet, I hope to hear your true name. Yah!"
Meng Kuan turned, but saw only the man's receding back as he vanished into the swirling snow.
He smacked his lips, as if savoring the wine, or perhaps at a loss for words.
"Now I owe the man a name."
...
At the Toilgrain Barn in Hutuo, a few sparks splattered in the wind.
Meng Kuan tilted his head back and downed another heavy swig.